


where your life and my life's directions can wrangle

by acid_glue234



Series: you're just another song and dance [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, College, F/F, Fluff, Mild Language, New York City, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-07 13:32:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acid_glue234/pseuds/acid_glue234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana moves fast, like a beguiling snake, stretching far out into the city, sinking her teeth into as many young women as she can. Rachel never understood the appeal; all of these delectable, curvy bodies coming home with Santana night after night. (Part I of the "you're just another song and dance" series, Rachel's POV)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. just a mess with a name and a price

**Author's Note:**

> This story is what happened in NY if:  
> 1) Santana and Brittany broke up over the summer  
> 2) Blaine cheated on Kurt before "The Break Up"  
> 3) Finn never went to the army  
> 4) Santana moves to New York in early September  
> \--plus a multitude of other things I can't remember at the moment, but you'll see. Enjoy!

New York is a place she's dreamt of ever since she was a little girl. It holds all of her hopes and aspirations. It was that beacon of light that kept her fighting all throughout high school, even when everything she faced seemed so much stronger.

New York is that place she always knew she belonged, and now that Rachel's here, she knows she's right. Even though she's sweating more than she's ever sweat, aching more than she's ever ached, and there's an insane woman in a black leotard yelling out, "5, 6, 7, 8...turn...5, 6, 7, 8...jump," for a full two hours every Tuesday morning at 8am, Rachel knows that this is only just the beginning.

Stardom doesn't just fall into your lap; she's going to have to work for what she wants, and if that means pasting on a fake smile every now and then to please Miss Cassandra July, then she'll do it. She'll do it easily, because she knows what's waiting for her at the end of this journey; her name in lights, her picture in the newspaper, headlines on famous blog sites, guest role spots on popular hit TV shows.

She has something wonderful to work towards, and it's so close that she can almost taste it. Rachel just wishes Santana had that type of drive. She wishes Santana could picture a future as grand as her own.

But all Santana seems to see nowadays is the bottom of her bottles of vodka. Rachel doesn't even know where her roommate gets the alcohol, considering they're both underage, but she never asks questions.

It would just be a waste of time; Santana never answers them anyway, so, really, what's the point?

\--

A bright streetlight shines into her room, highlighting a wide strip of her bed. It's too humid to hide underneath the covers tonight, so Rachel remains awake, staring up at the ceiling because she can't find sleep, or maybe sleep can't find her.

She can hear Santana from where she lays in bed. There's bumbling, shuffling, mumbling coming from the living area. Rachel holds her breath and waits for Santana to disappear behind her own curtain, but those unsteady footsteps don't stop where they're supposed to.

Those heavy footsteps continue to fumble closer and closer to Rachel's side of the loft. She closes her eyes when Santana draws her curtain back with a loud whoosh. She's definitely drunk, that much is certain by the way she continually murmurs expletives in Spanish under her breath.

Rachel doesn't say a word as Santana slumps down underneath her sheets, rolls into a tight ball, and then cries herself to sleep. It's a strangled cry, full of something that sounds a lot like fear and pain and hopelessness.

There is gasping, sobbing, and even coughing, but all Rachel can do is claw at her pillow and scoot as far away from Santana as possible until she's hanging off the edge of her own mattress.

\--

A trail of sweat slips down her temple as she holds position against the barre. Every other dance student watches their pose in the mirror, but Rachel looks straight through at the blonde woman behind her.

The smirk on her instructor's face is wiped clean as soon as they make eye contact. The guy on the barre next to her--David? Daniel, maybe?--lets out a weary sigh, because he knows what's coming. Everyone in Miss July's Tuesday morning dance class knows what's coming.

"Schwimmer," she calls out, pausing the classical music with the remote in her hand. No one moves a muscle and holds position as Miss July strides next to Rachel, so close that she can almost feel her teacher's breath against her face. "You're shaking. Something the matter?"

Her words may seem delicate and caring, but Rachel knows better. She can hear the bitterness in her dance instructor's voice. It's a familiar sound. "I'm fine, Miss July."

"You're fine," she chuckles, yet her voice is void of all humor. Shaking her head, she circles Rachel slowly and ends up on the other side of her. "I beg to differ. Your back is slouched, your feet are turned in, your knee is bent at the wrong angle, and if I have to watch you do a plié wrong one more time, I might actually claw my eyes out. Do you want me to claw my eyes out, Rachel?"

"No, Miss July," Rachel answers, tightening her sweaty grip on the barre. "I do not."

The dance instructor rolls her eyes. "Well, it sure seems so, with the way you're tragically murdering my choreography."

"I'll do better. Please, just give me some time to—"

"To what, Schwimmer?" Miss July sneers, her voice so loud it echoes off the four walls of the hollow dance studio. There's silence, an awkward cough in the background, and then the dance instructor sighs in frustration as she steps away from Rachel. "Class is over," she yells over her shoulder, "Get out of here."

The door slams behind her, and as soon as everyone's sure that the coast is clear, there is a collective sigh, mixed with someone, a male voice, gasping out, "Oh, sweet Jesus, thank God!"

\--

She gets home from class early. It's probably around 5 or 6pm when she walks through their thick metal door to find Santana sitting on the couch with a bowl of cereal. Lucky Charms, Frosted Flakes, Froot Loops, Mini Wheats—it's all she's been eating lately.

Rachel would warn Santana of the probability of diabetes in her future, but Rachel doesn't really feel like getting verbally attacked any time soon, because Lord knows it's happened before.

She doesn't say a word as she crosses the living area, but to her surprise, Santana speaks up for the first in almost three days, muttering, "Last night never happened."

Rachel pauses and looks over her shoulder. She can still hear the pained sobs from last night ringing in her ears whenever she closes her eyes. "Santana, it's okay, you don't have to—"

"Never happened, okay?" she repeats, her voice cracking on the last word. She sounds broken, lonely, sad.

With Santana's head turned toward the television, Rachel can't see her expression, but she knows Santana's suffering. She knows Santana misses Brittany, but there's nothing anyone can do about it.

As she continues on her way past the kitchen, Kurt pops his head out of his curtain with an odd look and says, "You two didn't..." he trails off suggestively, lifting an eyebrow, and Rachel can tell exactly what he's insinuating by just the look on his face.

She ignores him, because that's just preposterous, and disappears behind her own curtain.

\--

The dance studio is mostly deserted...well, at least Rachel thinks it is, until she hears, "That hellion is such a goddamned bitch, I swear." It comes from behind her as she's reaching into her bag for a towel. "Don't let July get to you. She's just pissed that she's old and wrinkly, while we're young and talented."

As Rachel turns around and dabs at her forehead, she is faced with a tall blonde with honest blue eyes, a sweet smile, and Rachel can't brush off the feeling that she knows this girl from somewhere.

"Do I know you?" she asks curiously.

The blonde thrusts her hand forward. "Angela," she says, and Rachel shakes her hand; not only because it's the polite thing to do and her fathers were always about good manners, but because Rachel knows a good soul when she sees one, and this girl here...

She's something else, so Rachel smiles back kindly and says, "It's nice to meet you. I'm Rachel Berry."

\--

Perfectly drained, and with nothing but a suitcase and the clothes on her back, Santana comes to New York, to their loft, and she declares this place as her new home.

 _Their_ place.

Rachel doesn't know what to say, so she doesn't say anything, just watches as Santana claims a corner of the loft as her own, and that is that.

Kurt welcomes her into their humble abode with open arms, so Rachel puts on a smile and does the same, because after all, this is their new start, so they might as well start off fresh.

\--

Angela is a dance major, and she looks so much like Brittany that Rachel can't help but stare sometimes.

Angela doesn't seem to mind though; she's a self-proclaimed attention whore, so Rachel asks her questions, anything she likes, and Angela answers them with a bright smile, always.

She's Italian, grew up in Brooklyn, lived here her entire life. She knows all the ins and outs, ups and downs, backs and forths, so Rachel sticks to her like glue. Kurt has already made his own friends at NYADA, so Rachel decides she should make some too.

It's scary, putting herself out there, especially after everything that happened in high school, but something about those familiar blue eyes reminds Rachel that there's nothing to be afraid of, nothing to fear but fear itself.

Angela is a junior and has dealt with Miss Cassandra July for every damn year since she's been at NYADA.

Rachel's immediately impressed. In the beginning of the semester, Rachel didn't even think she would survive the first week, but now that there's a living legend in her midst—one who has survived not one but two years of this torture—Rachel's sure she can do it too.

\--

Santana moves fast, like a beguiling snake, stretching far out into the city, sinking her teeth into as many young women as she can. Rachel never understood the appeal; all of these delectable, curvy bodies coming home with Santana night after night.

She used to count, but the number of women has become innumerable. She supposes the number doesn't really make a difference either way. Santana never gets attached; she can't handle that kind of thing right now, not after what happened between her and Brittany over the summer.

It grows into a mean cycle; one Rachel cannot possibly keep up with. Round and round Santana goes, so many times Rachel starts to get dizzy, watching them come and go, come and go, always satisfied, but never really _satisfied_.

Satisfaction.

Rachel's never fully comprehended that word. Of her entire life, Rachel doesn't think she's ever really been truly satisfied with anything; her school work, her singing, her life choices, her significant others. Nothing, actually.

Rachel works so hard in order to feel something just short of satisfaction, but Santana thinks she can find it overnight without even trying. And that's where she's wrong.

This is the reason Santana will never be able to move on. She relies too heavily on the motto; "Satisfaction guaranteed." It never is, whatever this satisfaction may be. It is never guaranteed, and Rachel wonders how long it's going to take Santana to realize this.

\--

Rachel's a rising star. (Well, sort of.)

She can't have people like Santana Lopez holding her back. Rachel has dance classes, vocal lessons, off-Broadway auditions, and a teacher who hates her existence to worry about. She actually has bills to pay, groceries to buy, and an entire city to explore.

It'll only waste most of her time and energy to get into Santana's head, find out what she's thinking, and then plan a whole intervention in her honor.

As of now, Rachel knows there's only two people who can help her struggling roommate, though Rachel can't really find it within herself to call Quinn, especially since the elite blonde is just settling into Yale, getting to know her surroundings the same way Rachel's been trying to.

She'd call Brittany, usually the only person who could snap some sense into Santana, but as far as Rachel knows, Brittany is the whole reason Santana is in this funk in the first place.

So, for now, Rachel lets it go; she ignores the trail of clothes leading into Santana's curtain; she turns her head away from the sight of Santana smuggling alcohol underneath her mattress; she puts her earphones on and blasts her music when Santana and another one of her unabashed lady friends reach their climaxes over and over again in the middle of the night.

Ignorance is bliss?

Rachel begs to differ.

\--

It's Tuesday morning, the sun has yet to rise, and Rachel's in the kitchen, half-asleep, pouring herself a cup of coffee when she hears a shuffling sound coming from down the hall.

She doesn't bother look up from what she's doing when a blonde (what else?) with nothing on but a bra and a pair of ripped jeans scampers past the living room and quickly out of the loft.

Rachel sighs and takes a sip of her coffee before heading towards the heavy door to slide it shut and lock it with a clang. It's her normal morning routine by now, so Rachel doesn't even give it a second thought as she heads back into the kitchen to finish reading the newspaper.

Kurt emerges not five minutes later, looking dapper in a light brown sweater and slacks. It's their fresh New York attire. No more Lima for neither of them, as far as they're concerned.

Rachel supposes they've all changed just a little bit ever since moving out here to New York; some more than others. And by others, Rachel means Santana. Duh.

Speaking of which, it's Santana who comes slumping out of her corner of the loft next, eyes squinted, dark hair tussled into the shape of a bird's nest, wearing nothing but a black tank top and a tiny pair of pink cotton panties.

Kurt doesn't utter a word to Santana—doesn't even give her the time of day—as he looks to Rachel and says something about coming home late tonight, so don't wait up, before heading out with a bagel clenched between his teeth and a messenger bag slung over his bony shoulder.

\--

Rachel doesn't try to figure out what's going on with her new roommate. Frankly, it's none of her business how many attractive women Santana sleeps with, leads on, and eventually breaks in the morning when she tells them—Rachel's heard the hushed whispers through the curtains so many times—"I'm not really in the right place for a relationship right now."

It's not all completely bullshit, not with the way Santana's been drinking herself into hollow stupors; not deep enough to permanently harm herself, but bad enough to add a little liquid courage to her vocabulary. She says things she doesn't mean, and never remembers them in the morning.

(Rachel remembers though.)

Her words aren't exactly cruel. Santana has feelings, Rachel knows; sometimes more than others. She's sensitive when it concerns to matters of the heart; her vulnerabilities are hidden but not non-existent. Santana tries so hard to hide them that sometimes she's left with nothing else but sex and pride.

But that's none of Rachel's business, as Santana's told her numerous times when she's tried to offer her opinion with words of wisdom and a sympathetic smile. For such a small person, Santana has so much pride that overshadows her need for assistance. So for now, all Rachel can do is let Santana go through whatever it is she's going through.

Apparently Kurt understands; he tells Rachel she's doing no good in shaming Santana for her actions—bedding almost every woman in Bushwick, then kicking them out before the sun even has a chance to rise.

Kurt's been through a breakup too recently; he had his own recovery phase when getting over Blaine's infidelity, so Santana should have her own time to get over whatever it is that happened between her and Brittany.

Rachel's not sure if she agrees, especially when Santana picks up smoking, starts sleeping throughout the entire day, and drinks bottles of alcohol as if it has all of life's answers right there at the bottom.

\--

The clatter of forks and knives have Rachel side-eyeing her hungover roommate as she fixes her breakfast. "Sleep well?" Rachel asks, turning the newspaper over to the back page.

Santana mutters something unintelligible as she sets a bowl of cereal onto the counter. She looks so tired and frail, and Rachel just can't look away from the bags under her eyes.

"Well, I slept like a baby if you happened to be wondering."

Santana only stares down at her bowl and breathes steadily. She doesn't eat for a long time, just sits there, and Rachel feels this unnerving urge to spoon-feed Santana. She looks so weak and depressed. Rachel can't help but sympathize, but she knows she won't ever fully understand.

Placing her finished cup of coffee into the sink, Rachel grabs her duffle bag from off the stool and slings it over her shoulder. "Well, I'm off to classes," she says. Rachel doesn't even know why she bothers; half the time she's talking to herself, while Santana dwells in a place only seen by her.

Rachel sometimes has the curious urge to see what Santana's seeing, to know what makes Santana want to sleep around.

Rachel wonders if it works; she can only go by what she sees, and whatever Santana's doing with her new life here in New York doesn't really seem to be working, but Rachel supposes she can't really judge.

She still has Finn—no matter how far he may seem at times—but in Santana's mind, she has no one. It must suck, believing nobody cares for you, especially when there are people out there who actually want to help.

As Rachel heads towards the door, prepared to give this day all she's got, she doesn't dare look back at the mess that is now Santana. It would only set her back, and—as Kurt's told her so many times before—whatever is going on with Santana is none of their concern.

So, Rachel gathers her things to leave and opens the huge door to the cold stairway, almost missing the quietly murmured, "Be safe," that comes from the kitchen behind her.

Rachel turns her head to find Santana looking up at her with a half smile. In earlier days, Rachel would take it as sarcasm or a snide remark in order to damper her mood, but on this dreary Tuesday morning, Rachel sees it for what it is: an olive branch, reaching out for help, so Rachel does the only thing she knows how; she takes that call for help, and she says, "You too, Santana."

\--

Five, six, seven, eight. "Rachel," she hears, over the music in her head. Five, six, seven, eight. "Rachel, hello?" Five, six, seven, eight. "Rach?" Five, six, seven--

She pauses in the middle of a turn. The music has stopped, and she is one of the last people left in the studio. Class has ended. Rachel's been so deep in her head she didn't even notice. Letting out a sigh, she stretches her arms up and turns her head towards the mirror.

Angela is waiting behind her, eyes squinted with curiosity as she studies Rachel's movements. The expression of pity is written all over her face. Rachel doesn't want to hear it today, so she sidesteps past Angela and heads over to her duffle bag.

She's taking a sip of her water and letting out a sigh of relief when Angela comes up beside her. "Those were _some_ turns back there," Angela says, and Rachel nods in acknowledgment as she tips her bottle back for another sip. "Wish I could be as dedicated to this as you. I'd probably be famous by now if I had that kind of initiative."

She's being buttered up. Her ego is being stroked. Confidence boosted. It always happens right before she's questioned, belittled, pitied, which is just so unnecessary, considering she is more than fine.

So she likes to escape her apartment sometimes to spend a little extra time in the dance studio. She's not excessive, just determined to get this right or else she may end up...well...

Lips pursed decisively, Angela plucks Rachel's bottled water out of her hands. "Are you okay, Rachel?" she asks, slipping down against the wall and onto the hardwood floor as she puts the bottle to her lips.

Rachel looks down and forces a smile. She doesn't understand the question, because of course she's okay. Why wouldn't she be? How come everyone is always wondering how she is, but no one wonders if Santana's okay?

Santana's the one who needs help.

Rachel had no idea all of Santana's issues were affecting her this much in where other people could tell it's been bothering her. The realization is unnerving.

Snatching her water bottle back with a roll of her eyes, she bends her head back to gulp down another sip, swallows, then murmurs, "I'm fine, Angela."

She wipes her mouth with her forearm and runs a hand through her hair. It feels around 90 degrees in the studio. Rachel wonders when it got so hot in here as she picks up her bag and throws it over her shoulder.

"Lunch?" She raises an eyebrow in Angela's direction and waits for the blonde to nod.

"Only if it's at my favorite place," Angela singsongs with a wicked smirk, because even though that place is a dump, Angela can't get over how good their french fries are. Rachel wouldn't know; she'd never willingly eat at a restaurant with a C rating.

She always tries to advise Angela against it, especially after that one time she got food poisoning and had to sit on the toilet for hours, but this is Angela, and Angela's stubborn, outspoken, and rumored to be the daughter of a notorious Italian mob boss, so Rachel agrees to go to Big Lenny's (disgustingly unsanitary) Grill, even though the only thing she ever orders from there is a raspberry ice tea Snapple and a salad.

When Rachel nods reluctantly, Angela jumps up from off the floor to do a dorky little dance. Rolling her eyes, Rachel tries her best to stifle her laughter.

Santana would love Angela—leggy, blonde, blue eyes. Rachel wonders how long it would take Santana to get Angela to fall for her suggestive smirk, lewd jokes, delectable lips.

Angela labels herself as straight, but that's never stopped Santana before. Rachel's sure Santana has bedded more straight girls than actual lesbians since she's moved to New York.

The number of women is probably astounding, as well as incredibly unhealthy. Santana has no idea where those women have been, who else they've slept with, or if they even used protection while with all of those other people.

Rachel catches Angela's smile as she heads out of the studio. She tries to smile back, but it just doesn't feel right anymore, not while knowing her roommate is more than likely crying herself to sleep right about now.

She looks to the analog clock on the wall. 1:42pm. Yeah, right now seems about right. If she's on schedule, Santana probably just finished watching _The Young & the Restless_ in the living area. After that sage event, she takes about a four hour nap, wakes up at 5:30pm, fixes herself another bowl of sugary cereal, eats that as slowly and depressingly as possible, takes a super long, hot water wasting shower, dresses in a scantily clad outfit providing the clothes she has in the giant wooden chest in front of her bed, and by 8:32pm, Santana is out of the loft and on the prowl.

(It is possible she and Kurt _may_ have dropped by the loft during certain hours of the day to either pick up something that they'd forgotten, or to just simply check up on Santana. It is also possible that they may have exchanged notes over time.)

\--

"I can't give you what you want."

It's what Santana usually says to her one night stands if they're brave enough to stay the night. Rachel's heard it countless times before from the kitchen.

She's seen the women—sometimes more than one—angrily shove the curtain aside as they storm out of the apartment, upset with Santana when they're not guaranteed more, because when it comes to Santana Lopez, women _always_ want more.

\--

She's tossing her green salad around a white styrofoam bowl. Big Lenny's doesn't offer any vegan Caesar dressing, so she's forced to eat it wilted and dry. It doesn't really matter anyway. Nothing ever sits content in her stomach when she's thinking about who's waiting for her back home.

Santana's never cared about her, especially in high school. All throughout sophomore and junior year, Santana never thought twice about pushing her around. Santana didn't care one bit about making Rachel the butt of her jokes. Santana didn't just make it a habit of calling her demeaning nicknames—she thrived off of it.

No, Santana never gave a second thought to Rachel's feelings, so why should Rachel even be bothered by whatever is going on with her new roommate? As far as Rachel's concerned, Santana is just that girl who is renting out the corner space of the loft.

(Well, she actually hasn't been paying rent as of yet, but once Santana can function properly and seriously acquire a job long enough to earn a paycheck, then she'll be that random girl renting out a corner of their loft.

Until then, she's just Santana.)

 _Be safe_ ; the first positive words Santana has spoken to her in almost two weeks. Rachel wants to believe it's improvement, progression, but...she knows it's not. Time isn't going to help Santana. Neither is alcohol, sex, or sleep.

When Blaine and Kurt broke up, Kurt spent three full days in front of their television watching Les Miserablé over and over and over again. He cried at the same parts, yelled at the screen every time Anne Hathaway's character died, screaming, "It's not fair! It's not fair!" and he even sang along to 'On My Own,' harmonizing exceptionally well with Eponine, but not once did he ever finish the movie.

Right before the grand finale, after the scene where Jean Valjean dies, Kurt would just shut off the television and then go off to bed.

It wasn't until he was finally able to get through the entire movie as a whole that Rachel knew he was ready to move on. His time of mourning was over, and he had had his breakthrough.

Santana hasn't yet had a breakthrough; she's not on the verge to recovery, just destruction.

"Is this about that girl back from your hometown?" Angela asks, as she drops her brown paper bag down onto the table. Out comes a cheeseburger, some ketchup, and a sack of french fries.

Rachel wishes she had that kind of appetite. "I keep trying to convince myself that it's none of my business, but..." She sighs and picks at her salad. "Back in high school, I had this twisted thought that we were a family all because we were in the same club."

Angela looks contemplative, but then she smiles teasingly. "Debate team?"

"Glee," she corrects.

"She was in a _glee_ club with you," Angela says, and by the way she grins—the way her lips curve upward—makes Rachel wonder why everyone finds the idea of a glee club so damn hilarious. "There's no way she can be as depressed as you say."

Rachel raises her eyebrows, because Angela really has no idea; their glee club went through what most adults haven't even faced—car accidents, suicide attempts, pregnancies, paralyses, eggings, treachery, ambushes, hate crimes, fist fights, almost-marriages.

"Our little glee club had a lot more problems than you'd think," she says, instead of explaining every single thought that's zooming through her mind at the moment. "When it first started we were all so different, but by the end I knew I wasn't the only one who thought of us as a family."

"Family is a funny kind of thing." Angela takes a bite out of her burger and chews thoughtfully, swallows, then says, "Mine is, well... _very very crazy_." She laughs cynically, and Rachel wonders about mob bosses again. "But I know they'll always have my back."

"That's—" Rachel pauses and smiles at what feels like a distant memory. "That sounds a lot like how Santana was by the end of senior year."

Angela quirks an eyebrow as she wipes her mouth with a napkin. "Santana?"

"Yeah," Rachel nods, just realizing that this is the first time she's said her roommate's name out loud. "She even taped a recorder under her boob to help Kurt."

As expected, she gets a weird look from Angela at that, which makes Rachel laugh into her hand. Santana really is a character, and Rachel admittedly misses that about the other girl most—her goofiness, spunk, passion. She's a good person when she's happy, but...when she's not, that's another story.

Santana kind of has a knack for dragging everyone down around her. Rachel's tried her best to resist the sad cloud hovering over Santana's head, but all of that is kind of hard to avoid when the sad cloud seems to grow everyday Santana looms depressingly in their apartment.

There's really no easy way to explain the new Santana without confusing her with the old Santana, so with a breathy sigh, Rachel pushes her unfinished meal away and says, "Long story."

Angela leans an elbow on their crummy table and squints her eyes. They are so blue, so catlike, so much like Brittany's that Rachel secretly hopes Santana never meets Angela, because all that would do is hurt her at this point.

"Well, Rachel, if you really believe she's your family, then her business kind of _is_ your business," Angela says with a shrug, as if it's that simple. Rachel supposes it kind of is. "If you think she's floundering, it's up to you to help her. Family is a funny kind of thing, but it's not impossible."

\--

She arrives home late and Santana is still on the couch, which is kind of a surprise. Santana is never home at this time of night. Rachel and Kurt usually expect her in at around two or three in the morning.

Yes, it's a surprise, but Rachel cannot tell if it's a welcome surprise until Santana turns her attention away from the television. They stare at each other for a short moment, but then Santana smiles. The glow of the television against her soft features is a pleasant sight, so Rachel hesitantly smiles back as she kicks her shoes off near the door.

"Hey," Santana says, pulling her legs up into her chest as she looks back at the television. "How was class?"

"Okay...I suppose." Rachel drops her bag by the chair and tilts her head at what's playing on the television screen. "What are you watching?"

"This nature program about elephants." Santana shrugs her shoulders and scoots over a little to make room. Rachel is still a little unsure of where this is going and what has Santana finally talking to her, but she takes a seat anyway.

They sit in silence for awhile and just watch the Scrubbing Bubbles commercial. Rachel doesn't know what to say to Santana. They never really ever talked about anything—meaningless, or meaningful.

It's uncharted territory, sitting this close to Santana without setting her off, but once Rachel's seated there on the couch for longer than five minutes without a peep of protest, she takes it as a good sign. She also takes the fact that Santana's not watching yet another soap opera as a good sign as well.

"Did you know that when an elephant senses danger, they just bolt?" Santana doesn't take her eyes away from the screen as a gazelle jumps out of the bushes in a pursuit to lose its predator. "They're so big and strong, but it's like they're afraid of their own fucking shadow half the time."

Rachel stretches out her legs and scoots over closer to Santana. She grabs a part of the fleece blanket and smiles gratefully when Santana shifts sideways so that they can share. "They're probably unaware of the strength they possess," Rachel says, side-eyeing her roommate cautiously.

Santana lolls her head to the side in thought. "Yeah, I thought that too, but maybe not. Maybe they're just runners," she says, draping the blanket over both of their bare feet. "There are those who run from their fears, and then there are those who stay and fight, like lions or whatever."

Rachel looks over at Santana, but all she can see is the other girl's profile. She looks pensive, thoughtful, in the middle of an epiphany. The last thing Rachel wants is to ruin whatever kind of enlightenment is breaking through the holes in Santana's fog, so she stays quiet and lets Santana think.

There's a heavy sigh beside her, and then, "Am I a runner?" Santana sounds so lost and confused, but at least the ache of sadness has left her voice.

Rachel quirks an eyebrow. "Hmm?" she says, instead of offering up an actual answer. It's not really her place to say what Santana is, or what she's not (and Rachel's mostly sure that it was a rhetorical question anyway).

A look of realization flashes across her features. "I'm a fucking runner, aren't I?" Santana lets her head fall back against the couch, breathing in deeply through her nose. "Even though I've been in the same place for over three weeks, I am still running for my goddamned life like Dumbo here." She gestures at the television with an incredulous laugh.

"Santana—"

"No, I...I think I'm done." Santana's voice sounds heavy, and when Rachel looks at her again, closely and carefully, she notices the tears for the first time. She notices the broken expression, the mixture of confusion and pain, the urge to break free from the heartbreak she's feeling—almost _always_ feeling.

A sob breaks free as Santana's face crumbles into a look of mortification. Rachel has Santana in her arms before she even realizes she's moved. With her head on Rachel's shoulder, Santana cries against her neck and says, "I think I'm done running."

She wants to say something smart, something helpful to make Santana feel better, but Rachel knows there's nothing she can do at this point, so with a deep breath, she cradles Santana in her arms and holds on tight. Holds on tight to this breakthrough. Holds tight. _Tight_.

 


	2. up and up we keep on climbing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all titles are lyrics from Passion Pit songs. much love for that band <3

Something about being alone— _isolated_ —in a huge city like New York makes Rachel contemplative, thoughtful.

Despite there only being two other people living with her, Rachel sometimes just needs to get away from it all—Santana's relentless scrutiny over everything and anything, Kurt's love for gossiping and blunt sarcasm.

Rachel knows she's not exactly the easiest person to live with either. She has a habit of losing the remote every now and then—but absolutely insufferable to the point of having to escape? Rachel doesn't think she's been _that_ bad since the beginning of junior year.

It's only early September; not too cold, not too warm outside, but Rachel finds herself wrapping a red scarf around her neck anyway as she stands on the rooftop of their building.

She's listening to Finn ramble on about his week; the lessons he has planned for glee club, how yesterday he beat Puck's high score in Call of Duty, how he sees himself in this sophomore named Ryan or something. She even suffers through a half hour long description of how he fixed an old motor in a pickup truck at Burt's shop.

For a moment, Rachel feels like she's still in high school, laying on her bed as she talks to Finn on the phone for hours on end (even though they both know they'll see each other in school the next day).

Rachel used to be so excited to hear from him. She'd jump for her phone whenever it chimed Finn's programmed ringtone (and that's back when they saw each other _every day_ ), but now Rachel wonders what changed; why it is she suddenly feels suffocated, trapped, claustrophobic every time she thinks about Finn.

He must remind her too much of Lima, what she's been fighting to leave behind ever since coming— _escaping_ —to New York this summer.

That's what she tries to tell herself, at least.

\--

Santana seems a bit livelier lately. She's not bringing a woman home every night, or drinking all of the time, and she even eats better meals than just cold cereal. She's moved on to oatmeal, which probably isn't much better, but Rachel figures she better not argue. After all, it's progress.

It might sound stupid, but Rachel is kind of proud of her. Santana is actually trying to make a change and move on from whatever happened between her and Brittany. She doesn't sleep until three in the afternoon anymore, and she's not going to bed at two in the morning.

The only thing that rubs Rachel the wrong way is the fact that Santana seems lonely. She's been talking to Rachel and Kurt more as of recently, but Rachel hasn't seen Santana with any friends that last more than one night since she's moved in.

Santana sometimes doesn't even leave the apartment for more than three days, just mopes around in her pajamas or sweats, lounging on the couch, or out smoking on the fire escape. Santana needs to get out, breathe in some fresh air, and explore the city.

After class on Thursday night, Rachel brings home a pizza from the Italian restaurant across the street from NYADA. Santana forgets all about her program on the History Channel and helps Rachel with the food as soon as she enters the apartment.

Kurt comes strolling out of his curtain just in time to catch the act of chivalry, and he raises an eyebrow. Rachel smiles and gives him a look as they head into the kitchen together.

It's not until they're all sitting in front of the television watching _Grey's Anatomy_ that Rachel asks Santana if she'd maybe want to come out with some of her friends from NYADA for drinks and karaoke.

Santana rolls her eyes at the karaoke part, saying, "I'll let you losers take care of the entertainment, but I'm all in for the booze."

\--

It's kind of exciting having Santana join her for a night out.

Back in high school, Rachel would have killed to be able to hang out with one of the head cheerleaders, and even though she's moved on from that urge to be liked and popular, it still doesn't take away the fact that Santana Lopez is accompanying her to Call Backs.

Rachel's the one with the friends now, and she has to admit that it feels really good being the bigger person by including Santana in her plans.

\--

Rachel's waiting patiently on the couch and repeatedly flicking through the channels as Santana scurries frantically around the apartment.

She thinks it's kind of cute how Santana's so obviously nervous about tonight. She's fumbling around for the perfect outfit, spending an hour on her makeup, and even worrying if the curls in her hair will stay.

Rachel also thinks it's kind of absurd, because she's _Santana_ , and she's always been naturally beautiful—a fact Rachel used to be jealous of back in high school. If she knew how long it took Santana to get ready back then, there's no way she would have been so insecure about her looks.

Five minutes later, Santana stands in front of the television, successfully blocking Rachel's view. "Yo, Berry, how do I look?" she asks, and then twirls around with her arms out.

Rachel was actually watching that, but she looks Santana up and down anyway. "You look..." She narrows her eyes carefully, because she actually wants to give her honest opinion. "You look indubitably glamorous."

Santana's face falls. "That's it? _Glamorous_? I was hoping for something a little bit more particular like super hot, or...a compliment about my boobs." And she exhibits this by using her hands to heft up her chest.

Her boobs _do_ look fantastic in that shirt. As Rachel grabs her purse from off the coffee table, she brushes her bangs out of her eyes and says, "Your boobs look amazing, Santana. Happy?"

"Very," Santana smiles cheekily as she goes to grab her coat from out the closet. Pleased, Rachel smirks with a roll of her eyes as she tugs on her jacket and heads out of the apartment, Santana quickly trailing behind.

Tonight should be interesting.

\--

They catch a cab to Call Backs, and when Santana opens every door they pass through for her, Rachel begins to wonder if it's a habit Santana's gained from only dating women now.

(Rachel doesn't really mind either way—if she doesn't have to touch any nasty doorknobs, that's fine with her.)

Santana doesn't even seem to notice her chivalry as she slips into the cab after Rachel. She's more obsessed with how her makeup looks as she pulls out a compact mirror to check her eyeliner. Rachel wants to tell Santana that she looks flawless—she always does, makeup or not, but something tells her Santana would just brush off the compliment.

Santana probably gets told how beautiful she looks two million fifty two thousand and seventy eight hundred times a day. She doesn't need one more person telling her she's hot. Especially Rachel of all people.

When they get to the club, Santana opens the door for Rachel again, and Rachel's about to tell Santana that she doesn't have to keep doing that, but Santana's hand is gripping her wrist and tugging her towards the bar before she gets the chance.

Rachel's not exactly fond of being dragged around, and she certainly hopes this isn't how Santana treats the women she takes out.

(Not to sound cruel, but it's not a wonder Santana's only had one stable relationship out of the plethora of people she dated in high school.

Granted, Santana's a lesbian, and the only stable relationship she's had was with Brittany, but that's neither here nor there.)

Halfway to the bar, Rachel reclaims her arm and leans up against the counter beside Santana. She's only been here twice. Once on a Saturday, once on a Tuesday. But she's never been here on Friday, and the place is considerably more crowded on this day of the week.

Standing up on her tiptoes, Rachel looks around for her friends as Santana chats with the bartender (who's probably never seen boobs as big as Santana's considering the dazed look on her face).

After a moment, Rachel spots her group of friends near the back of the bar near a pool table. Unsurprisingly, Angela is the center of attention as she laughs and jokes and flirts with anything that moves. Everyone, including Rachel—even from all the way across the bar—is awestruck with her, and why shouldn't they be?

She's an upperclassman. She's survived Cassandra July for two years. She's been the female lead in over four plays. She was the first sophomore to perform in the Winter Showcase last year, and absolutely _killed_ it—Rachel's seen the videos on YouTube more times than she'll ever be willing to admit.

Angela's a living legend, and Rachel suddenly realizes that the longer she waits here beside Santana, the less amount of time she'll have to talk with Angela.

Santana nudges her in the side. "You okay, Berry? You're practically drooling over there."

Rachel snaps out of her clouded gaze. "I'm fine, Santana," she says, and then wipes at her mouth just in case. "I'm merely growing impatient with your need to hit on every woman you see."

Santana makes a face; an annoyed face. "Hey, look here," she starts, seemingly offended, because apparently Santana's allowed to be insulted by the smallest of things, yet Rachel has to put on a brave face every time her roommate calls her a midget or makes a racially insensitive joke regarding her nose. "I'm doing this for _us_. Why pay these ridiculous prices if I can just easily flirt my way into free booze by shoving my boobs into people's faces?"

Rachel grimaces. "That sounds vaguely like prostitution."

"I'm not offering _sex_ ," Santana bites, rolling her eyes. "Just a nice view."

When the bartender comes back, Santana whispers something into her ear about not being drunk enough for all of these NYADA freaks, and Rachel would take offense, but she's learned to turn off her feelings whenever it comes to Santana's foul mouth.

(The harsh insults and clever nicknames don't really bother her anymore. Actually, Rachel doesn't even notice when Santana says them half the time. It's all white noise to her nowadays, and probably to Kurt as well.

This new skill has definitely come in handy ever since Santana moved in. Now Rachel can just tune Santana out whenever she complains about their organic food, or Rachel's choice in attire, or the 'insanely gay' TV shows Kurt insists on watching.)

Looking a little tipsy herself, the bartender laughs at whatever Santana whispers in her ear. She doesn't even give Rachel a second glance as she pours out two glasses of something-clear-and-bubbly, and then says, "It's on the house."

Santana sends her a wink before grabbing her drink. Rachel grabs hers just in time before being pulled off by a hand around her wrist again. They squeeze their way through a multitude of bodies as she follows Santana deeper into the bar. If Rachel didn't know any better, she'd think _she_ was the one who's never been here before.

Being so short, Rachel can't even tell where Santana's taking her. They weave in and out of people and tables, and Rachel's just about to ask if Santana knows where she's going when Santana stops in her tracks, Rachel practically bowling her over from behind.

"Santana, what are you _doing_?"

Santana stares forward and stammers, "That girl—" Her eyes turn dark and sparkly. "Who is that?"

Rachel follows Santana's line of vision and has to clamp her mouth shut to keep from sighing in exasperation. Angela—the only one standing at the NYADA table—tips her head back as she knocks down a shot. Everyone at the table cheers her on as she bows with a playful flourish.

Rachel winces. "Oh, dear."

"She looks so much like—"

"Yeah, I know," she says, resting a hand on Santana's forearm. It's supposed to be a comforting gesture, but Rachel's just now realizing how awkward it feels to touch Santana when they're barely even friends. She retracts her hand slowly.

Thankfully Santana doesn't seem to notice. "Who is she?"

"Angela," she supplies, rocking back on her heels. "From my dance class."

"She dances?"

Rachel was afraid this would happen. "Santana, if this is too much for—"

"I'm fine," Santana snaps, taking a long sip of her something-clear-and-bubbly. She swallows with a wince. "We came out tonight to have a good time, right?"

"...right."

"So, what are we waiting for?"

Unconvinced and slightly curious, Rachel offers a jerky shrug, and then follows after Santana as she makes a beeline straight toward her NYADA friends. She sends up a prayer to whatever god is listening at the moment that tonight isn't a huge disaster. She doesn't get a response, but no news is good news, right?

Once they reach the table, Rachel makes quick introductions in order to avoid any awkward silences. "That's Daniel; this is Cat; that's Tyler, his boyfriend Riley; this is Jeffrey, his girlfriend Sarah, and that's...Angela."

Santana waves hello to every single person with a small smile, and they all wave hello and smile back, but once Rachel gets to Angela, everything in Call Backs seems to freeze as Santana's eyes get all mystical—it's the best word Rachel can come up with to describe the clear and shiny look in those dark eyes of hers—as she claims the seat to Angela's right.

Daniel, Angela's recent suitor—recent, meaning there's been quite a lot—looks a bit miffed at getting his seat stolen, but of course Santana doesn't take much notice as she smiles at Angela like she's, well...Brittany.

When everyone else goes off to dance and sign up for karaoke, it's Santana and Angela who stay behind. Since Daniel no longer has anyone to woo this evening, he asks Rachel to dance with him.

To be honest, Rachel was kind of maybe hoping to talk to Angela about her chances in acquiring a role in this year's fall play, but as she watches Santana scoot over and whisper something into Angela's ear that makes them both laugh, Rachel decides to take Daniel up on that dance.

A myriad of people fly through Rachel's mind as Daniel leads her out onto the dance floor. Finn. Angela. Kurt. Santana. Mostly Finn though. But Daniel's considerably shorter than her boyfriend, which actually makes it easier to dance with him.

Finn's height and total lack of rhythm makes it nearly impossible to get through an entire song without getting her feet stepped on. Daniel is a sophomore and a dance major, so it's no surprise that when his arms encircle her waist and his feet begin to move, it's nothing like she ever experienced with Finn leading her.

Still, despite Daniel's competency when it comes to dancing, Rachel can't help but glance over his shoulder every now and then at the booth all of the way back in that dark, secluded corner.

They're still laughing about something, and Rachel blames her curiosity on the recent protectiveness she's felt over Santana. Her roommate is no doubt still moving on from Brittany, so whatever it is she's doing with Angela certainly won't help that, especially since the other girl looks just like Santana's ex.

But what bothers Rachel the most isn't that Santana's flirting with Angela. It's the fact Angela is actually flirting back. Of course Angela isn't interested—she's bone straight, after all—but she's a flattered self-proclaimed attention whore as well, so she plays along anyway.

Despite ethics and all moral conscience, Angela lets Santana play the role of inflator to her already massive ego as they scoot out of the booth, hand-in-hand, and shimmy out onto the dance floor.

When Santana catches her eye, Rachel looks away and forces a smile up at Daniel as he playfully twirls her around. They both laugh, and Rachel tries not to think of neither Finn nor Santana. Finn's over five hundred miles away, and Santana's a big girl—she can take care of herself.

Rachel came out to have fun tonight, so that's exactly what she's going to do.

\--

Rachel should have known better than to spend three songs dancing with Daniel Ford—the same Daniel Ford who's been rumored to fall in love with any girl who looks at him for more than three seconds.

Now that he's set his eyes on her, Rachel can't manage shake him loose as she heads on stage for her turn at karaoke. Daniel follows her up there with stars in his light brown eyes, so Rachel tells the DJ to change her song into a duet.

Daniel brightens up at this and grabs a mic from out of a bucket offstage. Rachel knows that if Finn saw how Daniel's looking at her right now, he'd probably kick over a chair or something.

He's always been oddly possessive over her in that regard. Rachel used to find it flattering, but now all it does is make her grimace. But then she realizes the spotlight is on her, so she switches her grimace into a wide grin as the opening notes of their duet starts to play.

Daniel tries to slip his hand into hers as they sing, but Rachel's having none of that. It's like playing cat and mouse with the boy as she scrambles to the other side of the stage. Daniel just smiles even wider and chases after her, because apparently this is some kind of game she's unknowingly initiating.

It's probably the way she's smiling. Whenever Rachel's on stage she can't help but grin like a maniac, and it seems Daniel is taking her joyful expression as a sign of go-ahead-and-attack-me-on-stage.

Rachel can't take the look his is bright eyes for another moment, so she looks out into the audience as the song continues.

She spots Santana and Angela dancing really _close_ —practically hip to hip as if they've known each other for longer than an hour and five minutes—near the edge of the dance floor. It's probably a bit pervy, but Rachel can't help but watch as they move together.

Of course Angela can move seeing as she's a dance major and all, but Santana's having no issue keeping up, which is probably because of the alcohol. Rachel can't remember Santana ever being this free in her movements during any of their glee rehearsals or performances.

Just as she's singing the last notes of the song, Rachel feels a hand low on her back. She turns for just one moment—set on scolding Daniel for touching her in such an inappropriate manner, especially during a public performance on stage—when a collective gasp sounds from the dance floor.

Rachel looks back down only to see Angela pushing her way through a crowd of people as Santana cradles the side of her face in shock.

The music has stopped, every wide eye in the bar is focused on Santana, and the only sound to be heard is the repetitive click-clack of Angela's heels as she squeezes through a throng of bemused patrons and out of the bar.

\--

Rachel doesn't know who to chase after or what to do, and Daniel looks just as confused as Rachel feels.

Everything in the entire karaoke bar is still as Santana rubs at her cheek and stares gabsmacked at the ground. Eventually the music comes back on and everyone slowly starts to mind their own business again.

Rachel brushes past Daniel as she rushes down the stage steps. He quickly follows after her, but she manages to lose him in the crowd, thankfully, just as she reaches Santana in the middle of the dance floor.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out Santana's more than a little tipsy. Her roommate is practically swaying like a pendulum as Rachel tugs on her arm and leads them out of a side door and into an alley.

\--

As soon as Rachel shuts taxi door behind them, she looks to Santana with a look of accusation. "What did you do?"

Santana sighs and looks just about ready to throw up right here in the backseat. The cabbie gives her a look as he turns a corner but doesn't say a word, thankfully.

"Santana."

" _Nothing_ ," she groans, and then presses her forehead up against the window. "I didn't do nothing." Double negative, which practically means she _did_ do something. Santana _always_ does something.

Rachel clenches her jaw. "Then what did you _say_? You must have said something in order for her to—"

"Jesus Christ, Berry," Santana mutters, running a shaky hand through her hair. "Will you shut up?"

"No, Santana, I will not." Rachel closes her eyes and tries to reel in her anger. It's not really working. "Angela is practically my only friend at NYADA, and I swear if you just ruined my chances at actually fitting in," she pauses to catch her breath, and slowly says, "I will never forgive you."

Santana laughs at this. "Oh no, how will I ever survive without your forgiveness?"

Rachel doesn't appreciate the sarcasm. Here she is trying to help Santana by including her with her friends, but all Santana does in return is ruin the entire night by hitting on the only person Rachel's been busting her ass trying to impress.

A sudden thought occurs to her, and before Rachel can stop herself, she asks, "You didn't...touch her inappropriately, did you?"

If looks could kill. The anger in Santana's eyes is so fierce as she turns her head that it almost causes Rachel to whimper in fear.

"God, I'm not out to fondle every single one of your female friends, Rachel," Santana snaps, narrowing her eyes furiously. "What kind of person do you think I am? I'm not a fucking _rapist_ or something."

That certainly shuts her up. The tension is so thick that Rachel can barely breathe as she cracks her window open to let in some fresh air, and Santana scoots as close to her door as possible. Mostly likely uncomfortable, the cabbie lets out a dry cough and pulls down his window too.

When they get back to their apartment, Santana doesn't open one door for her.

\--

One step forward, three steps back. It's like a dance they're doing, and it's kind of pissing her off.

Saturday, Santana's back to moping around the apartment in her sweatpants and tank top, eating nothing but cereal and potato chips, and watching shitty television on their couch all day.

When Kurt comes home from wherever he always disappears to, he gives Santana a bemused look before raising an eyebrow in Rachel's direction. From where she's sitting at the kitchen counter, Rachel can only shrug her shoulders as Santana turns up the volume on the television.

Kurt makes a face as he enters the kitchen. "Oh my god, what the hell happened last night?"

Shaking her head, Rachel can only say, "I'm not really sure myself."

"You're not sure?" Kurt places a hand on his hip. "Rachel, you were supposed to keep a close eye on her. I don't know what you did, but Santana looks like—"

"There are no walls in this apartment, Tinkerbell!" Santana shouts from where she's laying on the couch. "So, I suggest you revise whatever it is you're about to say!"

Kurt rolls his eyes in amusement. He hasn't been afraid of Santana since at least the beginning of junior year, or maybe even before that, and just because he can, Kurt purposefully raises his voice and yells, "Santana looks like she got _mugged_ by the Ghost of Exes Past last night!" And he couldn't be more right.

"Screw you, Hummel!" Santana screams back, and Rachel doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

\--

In class on Monday, Angela acts as if nothing ever happened as she talks to Rachel about this semester's play auditions.

(As soon as she'd walked through the door to the studio this morning, Rachel had been set to apologize on Santana's behalf, but it seemed as though Angela wanted to talk about what happened just as much as Santana did.)

Angela doesn't mention Call Backs or Santana or the smack she aimed at Santana's face. She doesn't mention any of it. All she does is smile that mob boss daughter smile of hers, and then works to charm the pants off of everyone in their dance class as usual.

This just peaks Rachel's curiosity even more. Everything between Angela and Santana seemed fine the other night, but all Rachel had to do was look away for less than three seconds for everything to, well...turn to hell.

While they stretch on the barre before class starts, Rachel tries to ask Daniel about it, but he's too busy staring at her with these deep puppy dog eyes. She asks Cat, Sarah, and even Tyler if they know what happened, but either they really don't know, or they're not willing to fess up.

Rachel knows Santana's been slapped a numerous amount of times in the past for saying something particular crass while sober, but since she was drunk the other night, there's no telling what she could have said, and this thought horrifies Rachel more than she'd like to admit.

After class, Rachel catches Angela by the door. "I don't know why everyone's pretending like nothing happened on Friday, but something _did_ happen, and while I understand it's none of my business on your behalf, Santana's like my family, which I believe partially makes it my concern to—"

"Rachel," Angela cuts in with a nervous laugh. "If you're worried that what Santana did messed up our friendship, you don't have to be. I know you can't control what she does."

"Yes, well...but, um," Rachel stammers, brushing her bangs to the side. "Remember how I told you she was going through some stuff? Yes, well, she's still working that out, and I want you to know that whatever she said or did, well..." She pauses to let out a sigh, knowing her rambling probably isn't making any sense. "Look, Santana's harmless."

"I'm sure she is," Angela mutters under her breath as she bends down to pick up her bag. Rachel doesn't get a chance to wonder what she means by that comment as Angela stands back up and says, "So, lunch? Big Lenny's?"

Something about the question makes Rachel feel like she can't say no.

\--

When Rachel gets home she almost trips over a pair of sneakers thrown in front of the doorway.

Unfolded blankets, discarded books, and dirty dishes litter the entire living area. The kitchen smells like funky water and ripe trash. Rachel has to hold her breath to keep from actually gagging on the air as she moves throughout the apartment.

"Santana!" Rachel screams, eyes wide as she scans their place from top to bottom.

Santana comes from behind her curtain, hands on her hips with this irritated expression. "What do you want now, Streisand?"

Santana's cleaned up her act, more or less, but it's days like this--when Rachel has worked her butt off in dance class--that she just cannot stand to come home to an unruly mess of filthy clothes on the couch and dirty dishes in the kitchen.

Kurt's been so busy with his Adam's Apples that he's hardly ever home, so it's not like he's been very helpful when it comes to cleaning the apartment or even noticing when there's something amiss.

But Santana is here in this apartment every day, every hour, doing absolutely nothing, so Rachel doesn't exactly understand how Santana can't find the time to pick up after herself. It's driving Rachel up a wall.

Her roommate is a complete hoarder. She doesn't clean up after herself, wash her own dishes, keep her area in the corner clean, and she never, _never_ , volunteers to do any of the necessary chores.

It seems that after what happened on Friday, Santana's taken a million steps back from her recent progress. It has to be just as frustrating to Santana as it is for Rachel. It _has_ to be.

Rachel stretches her arms out wide and takes a giant step backwards. "Look at this place!"

Santana glances around. "I'm looking."

"It is a mess in here. There is spoiled food on the coffee table, clothes hanging off of the refrigerator, trash squeezed between the sofa cushions," Rachel exasperates, picking up a popsicle stick from off the couch.

She holds it up to show Santana, extremely peeved when all her roommate offers is a careless shrug of her shoulders.

Rachel sighs. "I've tried to ignore it, but I cannot continue to live in such an unsanitary environment. I refuse to put my health on the line in order to let you live here when you're not even paying rent!"

Santana pauses and drops her hands from her hips. Her bored expression quickly turns into a look of hurt, and then suddenly into what Rachel recognizes as annoyance.

She folds her arms over her chest in a defensive manner. "Well, I so do apologize for not shooting wads of cash out of my asshole like Kurtsie."

Rachel doesn't even know what that means. "All I'm saying is that it wouldn't hurt to contribute, Santana."

"Actually, it would."

At this point, frustration is an understatement when it comes to how Rachel feels about her straggling roommate. If she thought high school was bad, this is a total nightmare.

"What do you even _do_ all day? I leave here, you're sleeping. I come home, you're sleeping," Rachel exasperates, but then she realizes she's been yelling by the look on Santana's face. If she doesn't calm down soon she's going to pop a blood vessel or something. Rachel takes a moment to think, and out of her mouth comes, "This wouldn't have anything to do with what happened between you and Angela, would it?"

Santana blinks, seemingly stunned by the question. "No, Rachel," she insists, running a hand through her hair. "It has _nothing_ to do with her."

As Rachel takes off her jacket and hangs it on the coat rack, she eyes Santana carefully, and then says, "If you don't mind me asking—"

"Berry, whatever you're about to say, I'd suggest shutting it. Nothing happened, got it?" Santana rounds the couch and plops down with a sigh. She groans in frustration, grinds her teeth, and then mumbles, "Angela's just..."

Rachel quirks an eyebrow when her roommate fails to complete her train of thought. "She's what?"

Kicking her feet up on the coffee table, Santana throws her head back against the couch and breathes out a sigh through clenched teeth. "So, that job thing..."

Santana's probably the most talented person that Rachel knows when it comes to randomly changing the subject. She wants to point it out so badly, but all that would do is make Santana snap at her again, so Rachel keeps her mouth shut and just waits.

Santana closes her eyes tightly, as if this conversation physically pains her. "How...how do I even _get_ one?"

Pushing aside a bundle of laundry, Rachel sits daintily next to Santana on the couch and regards her closely. "You've never..."

"No, okay?" Santana huffs, shooting up from the couch as she paces in front of the television. Rachel watches her walk back and forth with a frown. "I've never worked a fucking day in my life, but now that my dad disowned me, I guess I better get used to it, and _fast_."

Rachel pauses, her mouth formed into an O. This is definitely news to her. She didn't know Santana's father cut her off, but it surely does explain the breakdown Santana had soon after arriving in New York. Rachel can never imagine her fathers disowning her if she were to suddenly drop out of school, but she supposes not a lot of families are like her own.

"Oh," she mumbles, trying to think of something smart to say as Santana stares down at the floor, helplessly.

The only job Rachel's ever acquired was that one summer thing at a camp where she taught musically incapable children how to stay on key. She was a counselor in training and didn't even get paid, but compared to Santana, Rachel supposes she's had a lot more work experience.

(With all of the money and clothes and riches Santana's always bragged about having back in high school, Rachel doubts she ever even lifted a finger other than to slip a ring on.)

Moving some more trash and laundry around, Rachel finds her laptop under a bag of Lays chips and pulls it out of the dirty pile with a disgusted wince. How did this place even get so messy without her noticing?

"We can, um...start by searching online for any available jobs in the area," she proposes.

Rachel's not too sure how to find a job either, but she does her best to pretend like she knows what she's talking about for Santana's sake. It wouldn't exactly be productive if the both of them were running around like headless chickens.

So Rachel puts on an easy smile as she boots up her laptop. "If that doesn't work, our next option would have to be going out on foot."

"We? _Our_?" Santana looks skeptical as she rubs the back of her neck uncomfortably. "You're going to _help_ me? Even after I was, like, you know...a downright bitch?"

"We're roommates now, Santana, and even though that doesn't mean anything to you, it means something to me."

Santana looks even more uncomfortable as she shifts back and forth from foot to foot. "Thanks for, you know...that." She makes a face at her lack of eloquence and rubs at her temple as if all of this thinking is giving her a headache. The sight is oddly endearing. "And just so you know, you _do_ mean something to me. I'm not like totally heartless, you know."

Rachel smiles and rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "I know," she says. 

With a groan, Santana plops down next to Rachel so hard that the springs in the couch creak as it bounces the both of them up and down.

Rachel sends Santana a look--she and Kurt just bought this couch last month, and she certainly wouldn't be a happy camper if it broke in half because of Santana's carelessness--but Santana obviously doesn't catch on as she tugs Rachel's laptop out of her hands and googles _jobs in the city that don't suck ass_.

What can she do? Rachel supposes it's a start.


	3. you're looking for me from below

Dance classes with Miss Cassandra July only become more strenuous as the month of October begins.

At the start of the semester, Rachel had so many high expectations when it came to NYADA.

Old friends. New friends. Roommates. Teachers. New York.

So far, New York is the only thing that hasn't disappointed her.

\--

Kurt is hardly ever home. Rachel used to imagine their daily lives all of the time senior year, after they were both accepted into NYADA. In the mornings, Rachel would make them toast, because everything else she tries to cook always ends up burnt.

They would head out to lunch some time after noon and discuss their classes together. Kurt would ramble on about his exciting acting techniques and style classes. Rachel would brag about how dedicated and motivational her classical ballet teacher is.

Then, later that day, Rachel would come in after Kurt. He would have already started dinner; something exotic/organic/expensive/hard-to-pronounce. He'd kiss her as soon as she entered the kitchen, one on each cheek, and insist on feeding her a spoonful of the soup he cooked up for the both of them.

Basically, life at home would be perfect, and life at school would be exceptional.

Yet none of that has happened, and Rachel is just now beginning to realize how stupid her hopes have been. Kurt isn't her gay boyfriend. He's her gay best friend. She can't expect him to be around for her all of the time anymore like he was back in high school.

As he recreates himself and morphs into a real New Yorker, Rachel realizes she has to do the same. It's actually uncanny how much they've drifted apart since arriving here. On most nights, he's not even home, off helping out the costume design department, or rehearsing with the Adam's Apples, or gossiping with the theater techs.

Rachel's so wiped out after vocal lessons and dance classes, she doesn't even have the energy to join any extra-curriculars. Now, all she has is Angela, her hard-to-read-kind-of-dance-friend, and Santana, her-every-day-they-become-closer-roommate. It's not everything she dreamed of, but at least it's something.

\--

She comes home, yawns in the doorway, and waves at Santana who's slumped across the couch looking equally as exhausted.

Rachel goes over to slump beside her. Santana smells like coffee beans. She always smells like coffee beans whenever she comes home from a long day of work at the cafe.

Rachel's slightly impressed. It's been almost three weeks now, and although Santana complains about her feet aching from standing all day, she hasn't shown any signs of quitting.

By now it's dark outside, and the only light shining in the living room is the glow of the television. Rachel doesn't even know what they're watching. Some kind of documentary on the History Channel. Santana looks to be engrossed in it, so Rachel waits until the commercial to say, "I'm proud of you, Santana."

Santana tilts her head back and eyes Rachel carefully. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you were right," Santana sighs. Rachel's eyebrows shoot up. That's something she doesn't hear every day. "It actually didn't take as long as I thought to load the dishwasher, so congratu-fucking-lations, Berry."

Narrowing her eyes in confusion, Rachel lets out a laugh and shakes her head. "I wasn't talking about the dishes, Santana. You've had this job for nineteen days now and haven't quit yet. That's an accomplishment."

"You actually counted," Santana chuckles.

"Of course I counted!" Rachel squeals, throwing her arms around Santana's neck, only to have the other girl push her away.

"Oh, gag; please don't get all mushy with me about shit."

"Santana, I'm just simply expressing how--"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, my shows back on."

Despite Santana's complexion, Rachel swears she sees a blush heating up her face as she folds her arms over her chest and goes back to watching her documentary. Rachel stays quiet and gets into the show as well. It's about Lincoln and how he wasn't as honest as everybody gives him credit for, or something like that.

On the next commercial, Santana sighs heavily before scooting over on the couch to lay her head on Rachel's shoulder. Rachel doesn't even have to inhale to smell the whiff of coffee beans in Santana's hair--it's starting to become a comforting scent.

Months ago, the loft always felt vacant, naked, lonely, until Santana started coming home with that coffee bean smell.

Now, it feels like home.

\--

Rachel almost picks up Santana's baby shampoo as she bows her head underneath the showerhead. Her roommate is so weird. Santana thinks it's odd she and Kurt like to use normal, grown people shampoo--like Suave, Dove, Head and Shoulders.

But Santana swears by Johnson & Johnson baby wash. It's probably why Santana's hair is always so soft and silky. Maybe Rachel should start using it, but there's no doubt Santana would be able to tell.

Rachel squeezes her eyes shut as she soaps up her hair with a dab of shampoo. She scrubs all of the sweat and New York grit out of her scalp. She has to work fast and efficiently if she wants to save any water for Kurt.

Santana should already be gone. She likes to work the early shift on Saturdays so she'll have the rest of the day to do whatever it is Santana does. Rachel's been living with the girl for almost two months and she still doesn't understand her. She's probably not as complex as Rachel gives her credit for--admittedly, Santana's more odd than she is mysterious.

A chilly draft makes Rachel shiver as she ducks her bead back underneath the water. She hears a squeak but thinks nothing of it until the toilet flushes outside the shower curtain. The water suddenly turns deathly frigid. Rachel yelps and jerks away from the showerhead. Her eyes crack open a slit and soap bleeds in.

" _Aah!_ " she shrieks, throwing a splash of cold water at her face.

"Oh, relax and pass me the soap, will you?"

Rachel peeks an eye open to see Santana's silhouette through the thin yellow curtain. "Santana, what are you doing here? I am in the middle of showering!"

"I've been knocking on the door for over an hour," Santana exaggerates huffily. The sink faucet creaks on. Rachel reaches out a hand. The shower doesn't get any warmer. "You didn't answer and I had to pee."

"You peed while I was in the shower," she says, wiping at her burning eyes. She wonders if they're has red as they feel.

"Chill out, Berry," Santana snickers, because apparently this is hilarious. Rachel's afraid she didn't get the memo. "Now that I'm in here, I might as well brush my teeth. Hey, can you pass me the bath soap, there's only a sliver left of the bar."

The door must still be opened; the longer Rachel stands outside of the stream of water, the more she is starting shiver. She wraps her arms around her slick midsection, and then says, "No, Santana, no. Get out; I can't shower while you're in here."

"And why not?" Santana sounds amused.

"Because I'm naked!"

"Oh my god, you're naked? What kind of weirdo showers naked?"

The sarcasm is possibly more annoying than the fact Santana is even in here in the first place. "Santana, get out!"

"But I haven't even washed my hands yet," she whines.

Rachel's eyes are burning, and she really needs the water to be warm again. "Wash them in the kitchen. Go!"

The door slams shut after a short pause. But Rachel knows Santana's not really mad, just annoyed or irritated or overly amused. As she fiddles with the handles on the tiled wall, Rachel begins to wonder how she even knows that.

\--

With a pink towel wrapped around her head, Rachel pulls Santana's curtain aside without warning, because it's not like Santana ever asks before bursting in on her. Santana's on her bed, laying upside down off the edge as she taps at her phone. She peeks up from her phone and eyes Rachel closely. "What's up?"

"What's up," Rachel exasperates, throwing her hands up. "What's up? Well, let's see; you barge in on me in the middle of my shower, you flush the toilet while I'm shampooing," she points to the towel wrapped around her head, "and I could have just possibly caught a cold from you leaving the bathroom door wide open for five minutes."

Santana blinks as she smacks on her gum. She remains upside down and says, "I'm sorry." Rachel's about to bring up another point to argue, but then double takes, because she wasn't really expecting Santana to apologize that easily.

"What?"

"I get it, I'm sorry," Santana repeats, shifting sideways so that's she laying right side up.

She's wearing this really big sweater that looks exceptionally fluffy and comfortable. Rachel wonders why Santana hardly comes off that way, because she is, sometimes. Fluffy and comfortable, that is.

"I guess I forget about the fact you grew up with two dudes, while I've been changing in front of Quinn and Brittany and a bunch of other girls in locker rooms for years."

Santana looks frustratingly bored. It's probably more frustrating to Rachel, actually, because who could be bored while living here in the Big Apple? Rachel doesn't get it, and she doesn't get Santana.

Before a few minutes ago, she was all set to give a lecture on the importance of privacy and boundaries. Now, though, Rachel forgets her whole entire argument as Santana sits up slowly and says, "Britt, Q, and I have always been pretty open with each other, so if you're uncomfortable, I get it."

Rachel absently wonders how open. She wonders about it so much that she forgets to ask Santana why she's not at work yet.

\--

The music stops, and Rachel inwardly groans. She doesn't even know what she did wrong this time. Everyone is silent as Miss July click and clacks across the dance floor. Rachel looks up and locates her instructor through the mirror, but for once those piercing eyes are not focused on her.

Angela grips the bar tightly beside Rachel's hand. Her fingers are so white they look just about ready to break off. The music starts again, there's a collective sigh of relief, and then everyone begins to move again.

"5, 6, 7, 8... _Assemblé_ ," she yells, and everyone jumps from two feet to two feet, the working leg swishing out. "5, 6, 7, 8... _Sissonne_." Everyone jumps from two feet to one foot, and then holds position when the music stops.

Rachel locates Miss July again as she scopes out the entire class with a keen eye. Just one tremble, one jolt, one quiver, and you're done, so Rachel doesn't move a muscle as she focuses all of her thought and energy into keeping still.

Her back aches, the crook in her neck pops, and every bone in her body feels ready to crack into a million pieces. But she doesn't move, so Miss July doesn't attack her. All in all, it's a pretty good day.

\--

Santana goes from only eating cereal and oatmeal to eating everything in their kitchen. Rachel doesn't really care because none of her food is ever touched, but Kurt? He is livid when he finds Santana on the couch eating his Jiffy peanut butter right out of the jar.

What's worse; Santana's using her middle finger to scoop up dollops of peanut butter and lick them off her finger. She does it slowly and sensually just to piss Kurt off even further.

It works. He snatches the jar out of her hands, and Santana uses the finger that's still covered in excess peanut butter to flip him off.

Rachel tries to stifle her laughter, but Santana's kind of growing on her.

\--

Despite her understanding the other day, Santana starts coming into the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth whenever Rachel is in the shower. It's a big deal for the first three times.

Rachel shrieks and covers herself, Santana pretends not to look, and Kurt makes jokes about pressed lemons, which Santana snorts hysterically at. After the fourth time, Rachel stops caring.

It's not like Santana's flushing the toilet while she's showering anymore, so Rachel supposes she doesn't exactly hate the company. Besides, they actually have some pretty interesting conversations during their mellow, bathroom time.

It's like that thin yellow curtain between them works as some sort of common ground. As long as they don't look at each other, they can't pass judgment, which both Santana and Rachel are way too good at.

Santana gargles and spits. "I don't know if I'm more upset about losing Britt, or the fact that—" She pauses mid-sentence and sighs, contemplative. "Is it stupid to be afraid that no one will ever love me again?"

Rachel doesn't think it's stupid. "Of course not, Santana. The only thing harder than falling in love is finding someone who can love you back just as much."

The conversations they have always sound way more profound than they really are. Santana only talks about Brittany when they're here in the bathroom. Rachel doesn't mind listening—sometimes it's actually better than talking, which is a first for her.

The shower makes a horrid creaking sound as Rachel scrubs a dab of shampoo into her scalp. She just barely hears Santana mumble, "Britt was like, the only exception, you know?"

Finn was that person for Rachel at one point too. She doesn't know what he is now. They haven't even spoken to each other in two weeks. "Yeah," she says anyway.

"It didn't matter how many times I screwed up," Santana goes on, her voice muffled through the shower curtain. Rachel closes her eyes so none of the bubbles from her shampoo can slip in. "She always took me back without even an apology."

Rachel laughs a little sadly at that. "Brittany's definitely one of a kind in that regard," she says, letting the lukewarm water run down her sore back. Miss July has been kicking her ass in dance class this week. "I can't imagine that many women you come across in this city would be willing to forgive you without at least an 'I'm sorry' or 'I was wrong.'"

Santana hums thoughtfully, and then asks, "Is that what you like to hear whenever Finnocence sticks his foot in his mouth?"

"Only if he truly means it," Rachel answers, tilting her chin down as she scrubs the shampoo out of her hair. "By now I can usually tell when he's being sincere, yet I'm not particularly sure if that's a gift or a curse."

"It's a curse, believe me." Santana gurgles, and then pauses to spit again. "Knowing every single thing that was going through Britt's mind was just damn confusing. I can only imagine what you have to go through with Finnception."

\--

"July needs a good ol' fucking to get out of whatever funk she's stuck in," Angela says, coming up behind her. Rachel doesn't say anything in response; she's too exhausted to speak.

She didn't even come to NYADA for dance. Her major is theatre arts, but she has to take two semesters of this stupid class in order to graduate.

When she first signed up, Rachel figured she might as well get it over with sooner rather than later since dancing has never been her strong suit, but that smart decision is starting to bite her in the ass.

As well as her back. Her legs. Her upper thighs. The back of her neck. Her left shoulder. Everything hurts, and all Rachel wants to do is take a bath and then sleep forever and ever.

"Are you not talking to me because of that whole Santana thing?" Angela asks, guiltily. "She didn't tell you what happened, did she?"

Rachel sucks up enough energy to say, "No, she didn't tell me. I'm just too tired to move my mouth at the moment. Give me a minute."

A minute passes, exactly 60 seconds, and then Angela reaches down for Rachel's hand and pulls her up. "I could really go for a nice cup of joe right now," Angela leans down again to pick up her backpack. "How 'bout you?"

Daniel comes out of nowhere and says, "Yeah, I could really use a pick me up."

Rachel sighs, but Angela invites him along anyway, because he's a sweet guy, and apparently there's always room for sweet guys.

\--

It's not September anymore, so it's cold outside now. It's raining too. Very fast, hard, and slanted rain. Angela holds an umbrella over their heads as they huddle together.

Rachel's hands are freezing. She hasn't exactly found the time to buy new gloves yet. There were these fancy leather gloves she saw one of her classmates wearing in her Intro to Playwright class, but Rachel never got around to asking where she got them from.

As they bob and weave through tourists and other New Yorkers, Angela starts snickering silently into her hand because apparently it's hilarious that no matter what Rachel does, Daniel will not stop staring at her.

She wants to tell him to back off. It's not like she doesn't have a valid excuse— _hello_ , _Finn_ —but something about the extra attention is kind of flattering. No wonder Angela soaks up as much of it as she can whenever she can.

Rachel keeps her head bowed to refrain from looking at Daniel, who's looking at her— _always_ looking at her—and she entirely misses the fact that they're heading straight for the Cobblestone Cafe. Once they enter, it's a little too late to back out, or to turn around and run, or to stop whatever awkwardness that is about to ensue from ensuing.

They get in line, and Rachel was right; as soon as Santana lifts her head to take their order, the entire cafe gets a million degrees colder. Santana gives Rachel one of those _oh-my-fucking-hell-shit-damn-fuck-damn_ looks, and Rachel hides behind Daniel. He's never been useful until now.

Surprisingly, Angela smiles at Santana as she places her order—is she graceful in everything she does?—and it's so Brittany that Rachel can't help but feel Santana's pain. It's like Santana escaped from Lima just to land right back where she was. If that's not hell, Rachel doesn't know what is.

As Angela shakes out her umbrella, she leans over the counter and whispers something into Santana's ear. Santana's eyes turn dark as she bows her head to respond. Rachel doesn't know how to react as they start quietly murmuring to each other. Something sinks in Rachel's stomach at the soft expression in Santana's eyes. That is never a good look. Especially on Santana.

Angela looks over her shoulder and asks, "What do you guys want?"

"Um, let's see," Daniel mutters as he slowly and carefully scans the chalkboard menu. He reminds Rachel a little too much of Sam Evans with how innocently slow and endearing he is. "I'll have...no, wait, that looks fattening. Hmm...oh, cool, I'll have that. Pumpkin cinnamon latte. That sounds healthy, right? Because of the pumpkin?"

Rachel ignores him. "I'll have the usual," she says, craning her neck as she nods to Santana.

Santana smiles and nods back as she enters in their orders. Thank god for coffee shop elevator music. They seem to be the only three customers in the cafe. Without the music, things would be a lot more silent and...awkward.

Angela and Daniel head off to a booth by the window as Santana works fast behind the counter to make their drinks. Once the coast is clear, Santana turns around and whispers, "What the fuck were you thinking bringing her here?"

Rachel's surprised at Santana's tone; a mixture of fire and ice. "I didn't know we were even coming here until we were...here," she explains, shrugging her shoulders at the skeptical look on Santana's face. "Hey, don't blame me for this. Maybe if you would just apologize for whatever it is you did, we could all move on from this little mishap—"

"I'm never apologizing to that bitch," Santana says as she slaps on a plastic lid and slides a cup down the counter.

"Santana," Rachel tries.

"Just drop it, Rachel," she says, squeezing all three of the coffee cups into a brown tray. "We were _both_ drunk. I didn't do anything worth regretting. She's the one who should feel guilty about shit."

Rachel doesn't really know what to say to that as she grabs the tray. "Well, I guess I'll see you back at the loft. When do you get off?"

In a few hours," Santana mumbles, looking over Rachel's shoulder uneasily. "I'll probably be in at around eight or eight-thirty-ish." She tugs her apron tighter around her waist and says, "Oh, and do me a favor. Don't ever bring that bitch back here."

\--

Every ten seconds, Angela's eyes dart sideways to where Santana's standing behind the counter. Rachel tries her best to ignore it, but she's already ignoring Daniel—she can only ignore so many people at once without getting a migraine.

They're talking about what a bitch Cassandra July is—because it seems to be the only thing they all have in common—when Angela suddenly goes, "Does she ask about me?"

"Who?" Rachel says, but she thinks she may already have an idea.

Angela's eyes dart sideways again before resting back on Rachel. "Santana," she whispers, ducking her head. "Does she ever, like...ask about me or anything?"

"Not...really," Rachel says slowly, wincing at the dismayed look on Angela's face. Honestly, Rachel's pretty sure hell will freeze over before the day Santana initiates a conversation with her about _that bitch_. Rachel doesn't tell her that, though.

"Santana's that angry looking barista, right?" Daniel asks, slurping loudly from his stirring stick. Rachel wants to tell him that it's not a straw, and that normal people usually don't even drink coffee with straws anyway. She doesn't tell him that, though. He probably wouldn't listen anyway.

"She's not angry," Angela chimes in before Rachel can. "That's her thinking face."

Her thinking face? How would she even know?

"Actually, she _is_ angry," Rachel points out—she's lived with Santana long enough to know. How long has Angela lived with Santana? Zippo. "Look, I don't know what transpired between the two of you, but recently I've been getting to know Santana better with our talks in the shower, and she's not a bad person, so whatever—"

"Wait, wait, _wait_ ," Daniel snorts, chewing on the side of his stirring stick. "The two of you shower together?" By the look on Angela's face, it's pretty obvious she'd like to know the answer as well.

Rachel scoffs as her cheeks turn scarlet red. "No, we do not shower together," she insists. "To save time, we just merely use the bathroom simultaneously. Santana washes her face and brushes her teeth while I shower, and vice versa."

Daniel smiles at this, and Rachel notices a vague resemblance to the Joker. "Have you ever seen each other naked?"

Well, there was that one time, but Rachel says, "No," very, very sternly, because his questions are starting to make her face hot.

Angela hasn't said anything in awhile. Her eyes keep jumping back and forth between Rachel and Santana, who's still working behind the counter as more and more customers come in during rush hour.

Suddenly rigid and stiff, Angela asks, "Does Santana like you?"

"How do you mean?" Rachel asks, distracted by a man at the counter that looks just like a drowned rat.

Angela sighs, and then says, "Has she ever tried to have sex with you?"

Rachel chokes on a gulp of coffee. Spurts of liquid blubber down her chin, and Daniel cracks up as he grabs a napkin and tries to wipe at her mouth. Rachel scowls as she snatches the napkin out of his hand.

Ears burning, Rachel coughs out a laugh and says, "Of course she's never tried to...to have _sex_ with me. That's...that is the most ridiculous thing I've heard since Kurt told me he was dating Brittany."

"Who's dating who?"

Again, Rachel ignores Daniel as she wipes at her mouth and looks down to make sure that none of the coffee stained to her clothes. "Where did that question even come from?"

The legs of Angela's chair screech across the hardwood floor as she pushes away from their table and stands up. "I don't even know. That was a really stupid question," she says, shaking her head with a flustered smile. "Forget I even asked." She picks up her garbage, throws it in the nearest trash can, and then reaches for her umbrella. "I'll, um...see you guys in class tomorrow."

Daniel waves bye-bye like a toddler as Angela exits the shop. Rachel can't believe Angela just left her here with him. She also can't believe Angela just left her here without an umbrella.

Smiling, Daniel slumps back in his seat, juts his chin out, and says, "So, where were we?"

\--

Rachel ends up waiting at the coffee shop until Santana's shift is over for two reasons. One; she doesn't want Daniel to follow her home. Two; Santana has an umbrella, because, "I actually watch the weather channel for reasons other than checking out Sam Champion."

They huddle together under Santana's umbrella as they jog through the streets. The Cobblestone Cafe is only a few blocks away from their apartment, so there's no need to take a cab or the subway.

The raindrops have become bigger as they start falling harder, and for once Rachel's glad they live so far up that they don't have to worry about possible flooding. Santana opens the door for her when they reach their apartment building.

Who says chivalry is dead?

\--

Kurt is doing Pilates in the living area when they get in. Santana stares for a moment before bypassing him to go straight into the kitchen. "No comment," she throws over her shoulder. Kurt doesn't pay her any mind. It's become a habit of his.

Rachel arches an eyebrow as Santana ransacks the kitchen. "Jesus Christ, I'm hungrier than a junkie with the munchies."

Rachel rounds the counter and drapes her wet coat over a chair. "That's highly offensive, Santana."

Rolling her eyes, Santana grabs a carton of milk from out the refrigerator. "Not everything is offense, Berry Punch. Some things are just true," she says, taking a sip of milk straight from the carton. Rachel doesn't say anything. It's not like she drinks the milk so technically it's none of her business.

Narrowing her eyes, she taps her fingers on the counter. "I'm curious."

"I can help with that."

It's getting more and more difficult to ignore these comments. She's been ignoring things all day. "The comments you make," Rachel continues, "Where do they even come from?"

Santana shrugs. "I have no filter."

"Yeah, I thought that too, but most people don't even think the stuff you do, let alone say them out loud."

"I can't tell if you're complimenting me on my originality," Santana tilts her head back for another sip, swallows, then wipes at her mouth with her forearm, "or condemning me for my lack of sensitivity."

There's a residual milk mustache left behind on top of Santana's upper lip. It's kind of endearing, so Rachel doesn't point it out.

Instead she smiles and shrugs. "Both, I suppose."

Santana raises an eyebrow, but she ends up smiling too. "That's fair, _I suppose_."

\--

An hour later the power goes out while Rachel's rearranging their cluttered bookshelf.

"I've finally gone blind for my sins!" Santana shouts from behind her curtain.

Kurt groans when his Pilates DVD cuts off, and then a bolt of lightning highlights the entire living area.

\--

Rachel goes searching for flashlights while Santana scavengers the kitchen cabinets for candles. Apparently Kurt's grumpy tonight and leaves them to take a nap behind his curtain. So damn unhelpful, he's been lately.

"Found a flashlight," Rachel says, shining it in Santana's face. She giggles when Santana hisses like cat and cowers behind the counter. 

Two minutes later, she springs back up with a candle. "Got a light?" Santana asks.

"Yeah, I have a flashlight right here," Rachel says.

Santana rolls her eyes before painting on a smile. Reluctantly, and a little confused, Rachel smiles back as Santana holds out her candle again and lamely sings, "Got a light?"

It takes Rachel less than three seconds to catch on to what's happening. Santana knows showtunes? Especially from musicals like RENT?

Smiling to hold back laughter, Rachel squints her eyes in wonder. "I know you," she trills, taking out a match from out a draw in the counter.

Eyes bright, Santana instantly captures the roll of Mimi as she sneakily slides against the center island and beside Rachel.

Curling a strand of hair behind her ear, Rachel fiddles with the matches, and then recites, "You—you're shivering."

Santana shrugs her shoulders. "It's nothing. They...turned off my heat," she explains, looking away in faux embarrassment. "And I'm just a little weak on my feet." Hopeful, she holds out her candle again. "Would you light my candle?"

Rachel can't help but grin as she lights a match. When first moving in with Kurt, she could only seriously imagine doing this kind of dorky stuff with him, but when Santana's eyes darken in mischief as she watches Rachel put the flame to her candle, Rachel has to admit that she was really, really out of dodge thinking Kurt could pull this part off.

Rachel cocks her head to the side, allowing her eyes to take in Santana's calm features under the glow of the candle and soft shadow of light. She really is an attractive girl. Rachel's always known that, of course; she has eyes just like any other person who's ever given Santana a second look, but now that Santana's good-looks (beauty?) is mixed with her odd (intriguing?) personality, Rachel can't help but be hooked.

Sure, Santana's crass and outspoken and sometimes extremely unsanitary, but inside, deep deep deep deep _down_ , Rachel sees someone worth getting to know.

Santana smirks and bows her head. "What are you staring at?" she asks in a whisper.

Rachel had no idea she was still watching Santana, but when her roommate clears her throat with an amused smile, Rachel realizes that was actually Santana's line. "Nothing," she says easily. She takes a step closer and curiously fiddles with the matches in her hands. "Your hair in the moonlight. You look—"

From behind his curtain, Kurt lets out a dissatisfied grumble, effectively cutting Rachel off in the middle of her line. "You two are exhausting!" he yells, followed by an annoyed sigh. "Will you please shut up? I have an early class in the morning!"

They share a smile. Rachel might be biting the bullet, but she thinks this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. If she were to say this aloud, Santana would probably deny it faster than Quinn changes hairstyles, so for now she keeps it to herself.

(What Santana doesn't know can't hurt her.)

"I must say, Santana, you're acting is exceptional," Rachel admonishes, leaning an elbow on the countertop. "You should really think about pursuing a major in theatre arts." An idea strikes her. "Ooh, or maybe a career on television. Or on stage! The opportunities are endless."

"Whoa, calm down there, short stack," Santana holds up a hand as her eyes find the floor. She looks bashful. "I just dropped out of college. I'm still kind of figuring out what I'm gonna do with my life."

"Even so, Santana," Rachel continues, eyes wide with urgency, because if it's one thing Rachel cannot stand, it's when people don't live up to their full potential. "I would have never guessed that you'd know the lyrics to _Light My Candle_."

Santana huffs with a small smile, and then says, "My grandma and I used to watch all those musicals together when I was a kid."

She tries to play it off like it's no big deal, but Rachel can see the happiness in Santana's eyes from reliving those few precious moments from her childhood.

"Her favorite was _West Side Story_. We would always sing along to America together," Santana adds, tracing her fingertip over the lines on the countertop. "That's why I was so excited when I got the part of Anita last year."

Rachel remembers how crushed Santana was when her grandmother failed to show up to opening night of _West Side Story_ their senior year. She remembers how quiet Santana was before curtain call, how she kept peeking out to the audience from the side of the stage.

Rachel doesn't know how that kind of neglect feels. Her fathers have always been there for her, always in the first row of all of her performances. If Rachel actually takes a moment to reminisce back to their glee club shows, she can't recall ever seeing Santana's family there once.

"You know, if you're up for it, we could have a musical marathon one of these days," Rachel proposes, offering a half-shrug. "I mean, once the power comes back on, of course."

"That sounds...fun," Santana murmurs, and then makes a face, as if she's surprised by her own words. "But if you ever tell anyone I like showtunes, Berry, I swear—"

"You'd still like me."

Santana smirks knowingly. "Yeah, probably."

Rachel likes to think that maybe she's growing on Santana, too.

\--

It's cold, so they begrudgingly share a blanket and cuddle on the couch together. "I am so bored," Santana complains in the dullest voice, and then adds, "How the hell did our grandparents not go completely bat shit insane without either cable or Wi-Fi?"

"They had stories," Rachel says, yawning tiredly. She keeps forgetting she had a three hour dance class run by Satan's lovechild earlier today.

"Tell me a story then."

" _You_ tell _me_ a story. I had class today."

Santana sighs and throws her legs over Rachel's lap. "Well, I _worked_ all day," she argues. "It's a hard knock life."

Rachel presses her thumbs into Santana's bare feet. "Once upon a time there was a star in Bushwick named--"

"Santana motherfucking Lopez."

\--

They scavenger the refrigerator for anything remotely edible. Depending on how long the blackout lasts, everything is going to go bad anyway, so they might as well eat it all now--that's Santana's reasoning, at least.

Rachel goes along with it because she's too tired to argue. Also, she's kind of hungry too.

When they see that the vegan ice cream is melting, they decide to finish the tub in the kitchen. There are no more clean little spoons because Santana always forgets to run the dishwasher after loading it—"But at least I know how to load it now", she argues, annoyed--so they have to eat it with giant serving spoons.

Santana makes a face at the taste. Rachel deems it her 'ewwy face' because Santana does it whenever she doesn't like something.

Despite the ewwy face, Santana eats the vegan ice cream anyway. Rachel's pretty sure Santana would eat a raccoon if it was slathered in enough hot sauce.

Kurt comes in some time later. He sits at the counter and grabs a spoon. The ice cream is basically just liquid now. He dawns a straight face and deadpans, "How are you guys not drinking this yet?"  
  
\--

They use the flashlights and their hands as puppets against the wall until the power comes back on. "You know, I always kind of thought Mr. Schue looked like a puppet," Santana muses as she stretches her back. "You know, with his curly hair and sweater vests, and everything."

Kurt slowly shakes his head. "I think you're the only one who thought that."

"No, wait, I thought that too, but only once," Rachel chimes in. Kurt and Santana stare at her, willing her to go on. "Back when I had that brief but totally justifiable crush on him."

"You had a crush on Mr. Schue?" Santana makes the ewwy face. "Gag, eck, and retch."

Kurt looks mortified. "And when, might I ask, did this brief but justifiably stupid crush take place?"

Rachel ignores the stupid part of that comment; she's actually getting pretty good at it. "Sophomore year, back when I was naive and in—"

"Insane."

Rachel cuts Santana with a look. "Incapable of compartmentalizing my multitude of chaotic emotions."

"Suddenly I feel as if I'm living with a walking dictionary," Santana deadpans. Rachel shoves her over, and Santana kicks her in the thigh. "You know you use big word whenever you get exasperated, right?"

"I do?" she asks, and Santana nods. "Well, you make this ewwy face whenever you don't like something."

"Ewwy face?"

Rachel does the face.

"I have never made that face in my entire life."

"Oh my gosh, you do it all of the time! You're doing it now!" Rachel points at her face. Santana swats Rachel's hand away and tackles her to the floor after a brief struggle on the couch.

Huffing, Kurt stands up from this chair.

They pause in the middle of their wresting match, and Santana raises an eyebrow. "Where do you think you're going, hot stuff?"

"I'm leaving the two of you to flirt in peace. It's kind of nauseating to watch," he quips sassily, and then disappears behind his curtain a moment later.

A stiff silence falls between the two of them. Rachel rolls off of Santana's lap and just narrowly misses hitting her head on the coffee table. Santana hums as she stretches out her back. After it pops, she says, "Well, I'm beat."

She gets up slowly, as if she's waiting for Rachel to catch up. Rachel eventually picks up the pace and they stand face to face.

"Good night, Santana," she says.

"G'night, Berripedia."

They smile at each other, albeit a little awkwardly, and Santana scratches the side of her head as she picks up her blanket from off the couch.

Rachel would wonder why she's suddenly so nervous, but Santana's already heading behind her curtain. The further Santana ventures away, the less nervous Rachel becomes.

It seems her questions are answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II: "within the confines of such chemistry"

**Author's Note:**

> Starts off a bit angsty, I know, but the story totally gets lighter from here on out. Promises, promises ;)


End file.
